Homecomings and Birthdays

On this date (June 28) last year, Scott and I were wandering around London, especially the area around Bunhill Fields cemetery and Wesley's chapel.  It had been raining, hence the rain poncho I'm wearing in this picture, and as we paid our respects at the grave of John Wesley, it dawned on me that it was his birthday.  Looking around in the yard of the chapel, Scott noticed a tiny wildflower (ok, it was probably a weed, but it was all we could find), so I placed it on his grave while Scott snapped this photo.  We wished him a happy 314th birthday and took a few more pictures before continuing our meanderings across the city, congratulating ourselves that we had honored him with our humble floral tribute.  It was just the sort of thing that a Metho-nerd would do!

Today, I had the opportunity of sharing this story with a special group of people from a church I served many years ago.  Haymount United Methodist Church was my second appointment (1999-2004), and being their Associate Pastor was a blessing and a great joy.  Having been the pastor of two small churches for the previous 3 years, I now had the opportunity of being part of a large church staff, working as part of a team, and I learned things I could never have learned otherwise.  I would have happily served there for many more years, but one of the characteristics we have inherited from Father John is the itinerancy, so when the bishop moved me, I went.  In the intervening 14 years, I have served a number of other churches and due to "a strange chain of providences," as the Wesleys would say, I have now been at First Presbyterian now for nearly 7 years.

When we leave a church, we are supposed to really leave, not to pay pastoral calls on our former parishioners or officiate at their weddings or funerals or otherwise interfere with the ministry of the person who follows us.  There are exceptions, but these are meant to be rare and to take place only with the permission and at the invitation of the current pastor.  Because my ministry at Haymount is such a happy memory for me -- and for them -- I occasionally get the chance to be with them again, and today was one of those times.  I had been asked to speak to the Thursday gathering about my sabbatical, particularly about my Wesley research, and when I was introduced, the speaker simply said, "We want to welcome Donna home."  I talked and showed pictures and thoroughly enjoyed sharing my experiences with these dearly-loved friends.  We sang 2 of Charles Wesley's hymns, ate spaghetti and garlic bread, and even had cupcakes served on birthday plates in honor of Mr. Wesley!  It really was like being at home.

There is something precious about birthdays and homecomings because at their heart, these are family celebrations.  Laughing, telling stories, reliving shared memories, and hearing the news of what has taken place since you were last together -- these are what fill such occasions with moments of grace.  I told them that we are all Wesley's children and that we continue his legacy when we realize that we all have gifts that enable us to share the love of Christ with everyone we meet.  I can't help thinking that the Church and the world would be a much kinder place if we spent more time at the table with other people, discovering all that we have in common and rejoicing in the unity that exists in the midst of our rich diversity.  It reminds me of a hymn (not written by either Charles or John) that speaks to our oneness, echoing the words of the Apostle Paul:

One bread, one body,
one Lord of all,
one cup of blessing which we bless.
And we, though many,
throughout the earth,
we are one body in this one Lord.

As I drove back down the hill towards the corner of Ann and Bow Streets, I was filled with joy and thanksgiving for the outpouring of love from my old church as well as from the one I now serve.  I don't know what Mr. Wesley would have thought about us celebrating his birthday in this way, but he would surely be pleased when we are able to see each other as part of that one body of our one Lord.  If we could just hold onto that essential Christian truth, what a wonderful birthday AND homecoming gift that would be!

Our Children

This picture was taken on April 21, 2001, just as Scott and I disembarked at RDU with our children, Sergei and Natasha. We had just adopted them on April 12 in Arkhangelsk, Russia, and because of a law signed by President Bill Clinton, they became US citizens upon entry to the country at JFK in New York.  The months prior to their homecoming were filled with endless paperwork, frantic phone calls to various governmental offices, and fervent prayer.  The church I was serving then, Haymount United Methodist Church, had thrown two separate showers for them, and the congregation, as well as our families, were impatiently awaiting them.  One friend acquired both a Russian and an American flag, which he brought to the airport.  That gesture went a long way towards making our kids feel welcome, and it honored both sides of their cultural inheritance. They will always be Russian; they will also always be American.

And here we are, 17 years later, in an America that is more xenophobic than I could ever have imagined.  Both of my children have heard plenty of anti-immigrant mumbling, and they have even been targeted because of their Russian birth.  We adopted them because we felt called by God to parent them, and we hoped to give them opportunities and a life that would not otherwise have been possible.  We also raised them to be kind and respectful of others who might seem different from them, and we are happy that they have always honored diversity as a gift from God.

A few weeks ago, Natasha called me, quite upset. She is now living in another state, and she was trying to get a driver's license in that state. When she presented her birth certificate at the DMV, the official wrinkled up her nose and sarcastically announced, "That's Russian!  I can't read that!" while handing it back to her with great disdain.  Natasha said, "Mama, everybody stopped talking and stared at me like I was a freak.  That was the first time I ever felt like I wasn't a real American."

Imagine how I felt, hearing her say this.  Imagine how I tried to console her, reminding her that she is every bit as much an American as I am. And imagine me assuring her that we'd get it all straightened out and that she'd get her new license.  But I was at a loss for words to explain to her why someone who doesn't even know her would immediately dislike and distrust her because of the place of her birth.

We are better than this.  Americans are better than this.  And Christians above all are better than this.  At least we're supposed to be.  I've always loved the words Emma Lazarus penned for the Statue of Liberty in her poem "The New Colossus," and I love the words Jesus spoke to his disciples when they tried to shoo the little ones away from him. Luke says, in the KJV, "But Jesus called them unto him, and said, 'Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.'"

The English language has changed in the intervening centuries, and "suffer" at that time meant "allow," so Jesus was telling the disciples to let the children come to him, and furthermore, he held them up as exemplifying the reign and realm of God.  I have no doubt that he is very displeased with the way so many of his children are suffering in the modern sense of the word.  I just wonder if enough of us are going to speak for the voiceless and if we're going to welcome them in Christ's name.  And so I pray and I cry, not just for my children but for all of them.  For they are ALL our children.

If It Didn't Hurt And Wasn't Permanent

A good friend of mine posted a story on my Facebook page today about a United Methodist pastor in Tennessee getting a tattoo.  She did so, not because it's particularly unusual for a pastor to have a tattoo, but because this one features a circuit rider and a quote from John Wesley! Knowing my love for all things Wesley, she jokingly suggested that I might want to get one. I sent her an email to say that if tattoos didn't hurt and weren't permanent that I might consider getting one. She indicated that she found that amusing and probably thought nothing else about it.

 I, however, thought about it a good deal and began to vaguely remember a story about Saint Patrick baptizing King Aengus in Cashel, Ireland in circa 445 A.D.  It appears that the king knew something of Christianity and requested baptism from Patrick as the saint roamed through his kingdom.  Naturally, Patrick was delighted to do so, and the king's nobles gathered to witness the event.  Patrick apparently always carried a crozier, a bishop's staff, which had a sharp point on the end, enabling him to drive it into the ground where it could stand upright, leaving his hands free.  This time, when Patrick went to plant it into the ground, he instead pierced the king's foot. This went unnoticed until a pool of blood formed because the king neither yelped with pain nor even cried out.  When Patrick apologized for injuring him, King Aengus merely said, "I thought it was a normal part of the ceremony, therefore I said nothing."

 It's a curious story, and one wonders if it truly happened this way.  Just imagine how shocking it would be if someone being baptized suddenly had such an injury inflicted in your local church one Sunday morning!  Despite the language about dying and rising with Christ, we don't think of it as a particularly risky act, after all.  Those of us who baptize infants sometimes fail to make it clear just how dangerous baptism really can be, but then again, Christians who baptize only those old enough to ask for it aren't really any better.  Growing up Baptist, I remember that it was sort of assumed that by age 12 you would have made your profession of faith and been baptized, but there wasn't really any theological instruction beforehand. It was more like something you did because everybody else did, and whether we're talking about infants or older persons, baptism is sometimes reduced to a mere rite of passage.

I recently read a book in which the author referred to a baptismal service he had attended in an Anglican church.  He said that the priest did something unusual by asking the parents if they were willing to raise their child to be a faithful follower  of  Jesus, and to support him in his discipleship, even if the path he might choose should lead to suffering or even death.  Now there's a church who knows that baptism means something!  In baptism we are named and claimed by God 's grace which reaches out to us before we can even know to ask for it, and whether we are old enough to remember our baptism or not, it is God who is the chief actor and we the recipients of a gracious gift that we neither earned or deserved. 

But it is also an invitation to die and rise with Christ, to make a commitment to follow wherever the Holy Spirit might lead us to go, and that is dangerous stuff indeed.  In this way, receiving baptism is a bit like getting a tattoo. It may hurt, and it is permanent.  While you may turn your back on Christ and choose to sin away the grace you receive, God's love remains steadfast, and the Spirit continues to woo your wayward heart in countless ways.  It leaves a mark that may fade, but you can't undo it or re-do it.  So, no thanks! I don't need a tattoo – I've been baptized and called to lifelong, faithful discipleship that may lead to hurt and pain, but the gift it bestows is never-ending.  Thanks be to God!

My Dear Sister

This time last year, I was on a plane bound for Manchester.  My long-awaited and much anticipated sabbatical was beginning, and I was filled with excitement.  In the days prior to my departure, I packed and re-packed, rolling clothes to be held together with a rubber band, cramming socks and hose into shoes, and forcing my two modest-sized bags to make room for a few essential books.  My heart was full; my expectations were high.  I could never have imagined just how wonderful and life-changing this experience would be! Charles and John Wesley taught and preached about prevenient grace, the grace of God that comes before we know anything about it, and indeed, the hallmark of the Wesleyan revival was an emphasis on grace.  Well, I received grace upon grace in the course of my sabbatical, being welcomed as a friend and even as family in many of the places I visited, and having opportunities I could never have planned for or expected.

While in Bristol, I practically became a fixture at the New Room, visiting the museum 3 different times, slowly looking, reading, and listening as the story of Methodism was presented by way of fascinating exhibits.  I spent several hours in the archive/research area, reading letters written by early Methodists and feverishly taking notes, and I attended an organ concert that filled that old and holy space with beautiful music.  Best of all, I was able to worship there twice, receiving communion both times, and the second time, there was one of those grace moments that came as pure gift, a surprise that left me almost in tears, the opportunity to read the gospel lesson for the communion service.  I wrote about this in an earlier post (Hospitality and Welcome to All), so I won't repeat myself. 

That was an obvious kind of grace, a very public moment that filled my heart with joy and linked me to the early Methodists, those women and men and children who once packed the New Room to hear John preach and to sing their faith with hymns fresh from the pen of Charles.  But there were quieter, less obvious moments, symbolized by the picture at the top of this page.  The life-size figure of John Wesley stands at the window of his bedroom.  The slanted sill, designed by him, hits at just the right point for him to write comfortably as he stood, while for taller people like me, it would induce backache and cramp!  It is so real that I felt almost like a voyeur stealing a glance at the behind-the-scenes history of this public figure who was also a very private person.  Dr. Richard Heitzenrater calls him "the elusive Mr. Wesley" with good reason because just when I think I might be getting a handle on him, I discover something else that makes it clear that Wesley was a complex and complicated man. 

I love this depiction of him doing something so characteristic -- he wrote massive numbers of letters, many of them to women whom he addressed as "My Dear Sister." It made it easy to imagine him pausing for just the right phrase, looking up from the page out onto the busy Horsefair, as he dispensed medical advice, asked searching spiritual questions, and urged his reader to go on to perfection.  It's one of my favorite images from the 10 1/2 weeks of my sabbatical journey, making our tradition come alive in the present in a way that I hope will inspire and encourage others, especially as we face an increasingly frightening world and an uncertain future with hope and holy boldness.  And so, let Mr. Wesley speak a word of grace to you, reminding you as he did Ann Bolton in a letter written February 13, 1768, "The best and most desirable thing of all is that you should live and die wholly devoted to God."  That is an aspiration that surely all Christians can unite around, even in the midst of other disagreements.  Let us, like John Wesley, live and die, wholly devoted to God.

Remember My Choice

When I was at Annual Conference last week, I used the wi-fi at the hotel where I stayed.   That is to say, I tried to use it.  It was supposed to be a simple matter of finding the name of their network and clicking on it, but I quickly came to see that it wasn't so simple after all. It seemed like every five seconds, I was getting a message across the screen that gave me the option of clicking "Disconnect" or "Stay Connected," and then underneath it had a place where I could click "Remember My Choice."

As you might imagine, this got old quick! I grew annoyed when I was trying to do something online because of the constant interruption.  Finally, I just gave up and used my data plan instead, which was also annoying, but in a totally different way.  (Actually, I was paying attention to everything going on at Conference, so I hardly missed using the internet at all.  Really!) Every now and then I would try again, to no avail. I tried to be content with either using my data plan or just shutting down the phone, but it still bugged me that my phone had kept asking me to make a decision when all I wanted to do was just get on with what I was trying to accomplish.  And that's when it hit me.

One of the curses of being a pastor is that I tend to think of everything as a possible sermon illustration or in this case as a subject for a post on my blog. That stubborn screen with its option of staying in some sort of electronic relationship with the Hilton's wi-fi network suddenly took on a bigger significance for me.  As I fussed and fought with my telephone and the wi-fi, it suddenly occurred to me that this whole experience was a metaphor for what's going on in United Methodism. We keep having these conversations/arguments about whether or not we should stay connected or just go ahead and disconnect, all without really getting anywhere. 

Despite the fact that so many of our people want to keep on keeping on with the mission of the United Methodist Church, which is to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world, we keep being interrupted by the persistent query -- do you want to disconnect or stay connected?  I suppose next February in St. Louis at the special General Conference, we will finally have at least a partial answer to that question.  But at what cost?  No matter what, there will be some who simply won't remain in what Wesley called "the Connexion," and whatever is left after all the shouting isn't likely to be very united, it may not be terribly Methodist, and it is likely to be a poor version of a once dynamic church.

Despite all that, the North Carolina Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church met in Greenville in 2018, and there was joy at being together again, in singing "And Are We Yet Alive" and "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling," and in hearing inspired preaching and in worshiping the One in whom all things hold together.  My choice would be to stay connected, which was also what I wanted my phone to do, and oh, how I wish I could simply click on a button that would remember that choice for the UMC!  But, lacking a magic wand or a perfect solution, I will keep praying and keep trying to stay in "connexion" with my sisters and brothers, even though we are struggling to find a way forward.  And who knows?  The Holy Spirit may have a surprise in store for us!  We may discover that there actually was a real way forward in Christ all along.  May it be so!

Love Me; Think Always the Best of Me

These are difficult days for the United Methodist Church, days marked by tension and disagreement over matters of biblical interpretation, especially with regard to the status and role of lesbian and gay Christians in the life of the UMC.  There are a lot of blogs and podcasts avidly discussing the crisis point we have reached; this is not one of them.  I'm not going to rehash arguments or try to rally support, not because I don't have an opinion but because I want to promote something else.  While I do not believe we HAVE to split, I do not believe we will avoid it.  But if a rending of the Body of Christ is in fact on the horizon, I would like to plead the following: that we discuss the details of the divorce not only with civility but with love.

John Wesley was never short of opinions and never shy about proclaiming them. Autocratic, patriarchal, and just plain bossy -- he did not necessarily seek arguments, but he would firmly stand his ground even when threatened with physical harm or even death.  He could be persuaded otherwise on occasion, but not by being bullied.  Instead, he sought to be reasonably convinced, especially by recourse to scripture and the traditional teaching of the Church of England.   Above all, he wanted to be able to agree to disagree in a spirit of love, even if a painful break became inevitable.

In his much-quoted sermon "Catholic Spirit,"  he makes his case for the primacy of love in correcting another's wrong understanding, asking that the benefit of the doubt be given, that there should always be an assumption of good intentions in cases of disagreement and conflict.  He writes:

Love me (but in a higher degree than thou dost the bulk of mankind) with the love that is long-suffering and kind; that is patient, --if I am ignorant or out of the way, bearing and not increasing my burden; and is tender, soft, and compassionate still; that envieth not, if at any time it please God to prosper me in his work even more than thee. Love me with the love that is not provoked, either at my follies or infirmities; or even at my acting (if it should sometimes so appear to thee) not according to the will of God. Love me so as to think no evil of me; to put away all jealousy and evil-surmising. Love me with the love that covereth all things; that never reveals either my faults or infirmities, --that believeth all things; is always willing to think the best, to put the fairest construction on all my words and actions, --that hopeth all things; either that the thing related was never done; or not done with such circumstances as are related; or, at least, that it was done with a good-intention, or in a sudden stress of temptation. And hope to the end, that whatever is amiss will, by the grace of God, be corrected; and whatever is wanting, supplied, through the riches of his mercy in Christ Jesus.

A great deal of the conversations that I am hearing/reading appear to be more about scoring points or amusing the listener/reader than about extending grace with an attitude of love that believes and hopes the best of the other.  Applause and cynicism are often the order of the day, colleagues eye each other with distrust and disdain, bishops and participants in the Way Forward Commission process are mocked or denigrated, and everywhere, there are fresh wounds in the Body of Christ.  I've been through one great theological divorce in my former denomination and never thought to see one in the place that welcomed me home, United Methodism. I don't have answers or solutions or really anything new to add.  All I want to say is that we are better than this.  Even if we have come to the end of the line as the UMC, can we not still love one another and if we must part, let it be in sorrow, rather than fury?  As Mr. Wesley writes:

Though we cannot think alike, may we not love alike? May we not be of one heart, though we are not of one opinion? Without all doubt, we may.  Herein all the children of God may unite, notwithstanding these smaller differences.

So to all those with whom I disagree, I pledge to love you and think always the best of you.  I ask in return that you love me; think always the best of me.  And may the compassion and grace of Christ be the healing balm that binds up our wounds and binds us all together again someday.

Cheshire Cats and the Holy Spirit

picture taken May 2009, Meredith College

      Twenty-nine years ago, on a bright May morning, I graduated from Meredith College, a four-year women’s college in Raleigh steeped in Baptist heritage.  Founded in 1891, Meredith has long been known for a high quality of education and for certain unique traditions.  These inherited and shared experiences are an important part of what identifies a woman as a Meredith alumna, and we cling to them tenaciously.

One beloved tradition is the dramatic presentation of Alice in Wonderland by members of faculty and staff.  Performed only once every four years, this highly anticipated treat produces shrieks of laughter as spellbound students squint at the stage, trying to identify their professors through layers of makeup and elaborate costumes.  Given its popularity, it is not surprising that use of the search engine for the campus library is called “Ask ALIS,” neatly combining this whimsical love of Lewis Carroll with the unforgettable strains of Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” by way of an acronym whose component parts no one can be bothered to remember.

I was asked to deliver the baccalaureate sermon in 2009, which coincided neatly with the 20th year anniversary of my graduation, and not surprisingly, Alice put in an appearance.  While she is disoriented from meeting all the strange creatures of Wonderland and wanders around with no idea which direction to take, she encounters yet another odd inhabitant of this weird world, the grinning Cheshire Cat, and addresses it in an attempt to reorient herself.

'Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
'I don't much care where----' said Alice.
'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.
'----so long as I get somewhere,' Alice added as an explanation.
'Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, 'if you only walk enough.'

I suggested to the graduates that the professors and support staff at Meredith, as well as their families and friends had been their Cheshire Cats whose encouragement and wise counsel had consistently shown them that their destination was dependent on where they really wanted to be.  I hoped that I was imparting some pearls of wisdom to the graduates, but I didn’t really connect my words to my own life until re-reading that sermon on Pentecost of this year.

In 1989, I could hardly have imagined the strange, circuitous paths that would lead me to this point, but the necessary disorientation that accompanies transition has time and again given way to the Spirit’s sometimes gentle and, more often firm nudges.  Every year, I take stock of my life and ministry, seeking to discern whether Christ is calling me to continue traveling in the same direction or to take a deep breath and make a change.   And every year, as I pause to give thanks for my Cheshire Cats, I am reminded that while the Spirit may sometimes swoop in like a rushing wind complete with ecstatic tongues or dancing flames, my usual experience has been less dramatic, more like Alice’s conversation with the Cheshire Cat.  More often than not, I have been led forward as a result of an insightful conversation with a surprising source, but however it happens, I give thanks for the ways in which God takes the past and makes something new come of it, as I anticipate dreaming new dreams and seeing new visions, guided and goaded by God’s Holy Spirit.